Violets and Violence
by silbecoo
Summary: "I need you to scream. You're Karen Page he's the Punisher, he will come for you."


The last thing she remembered was the smell of violets, dainty petals pushed against her nose, the sweet scent invading her sinuses. She'd closed her eyes for half a second to lose herself in the scent, to imagine that he had been the one to leave them on her fire escape. How stupid could she have been?

Now the only thing she could smell was the dank mildew of an underground dwelling. Poorly ventilated and even more poorly lit. The back of her head throbbed and she knew without checking that there was rather large knot underneath her yellow hair, perhaps even a gash if the moisture dripping down the back of her neck told her anything. Her sight was the last sense that came into play, an errant thought passing through the back of her mind as she wondered if this is how it was for Matt.

Her pupils adjusted to the dimness, faint far off light filtering down into her cell, the bars casting shadows across the dirty floor. It wasn't the first time she's been locked up, but she had to admit that the clean yet stark cells downtown were a lot more preferable than where she was now.

Trash scattered across the floor, dirt caked in the creases between tiles, reddish brown stains on the wall that leave no question as to what went on here... It was a scene straight out of a horror movie, but she just didn't have it in her to react accordingly, a calm strangely numb feeling setting over her. How had this become par for the course?

She shifted against the damp floor, dispassionately noting that her shoes were gone and her stockings were now unsalvageable tattered things. Her wrists were free, the expected cold and unyielding sharpness of cuffs absent. Nothing around her ankles either. It was rather ominous sign. Her captors being unconcerned about her freedom of movement only meant the cell was secure.

She sat up, vision blurring for a second as her head swam. Nausea threatened. Best not to move too quickly. She made a mental note to see the doc about a possible concussion after all of this was over. Her surroundings gave her no clue as to who was behind this nonsense, and the only ambient noise was vague whir of a fan kicking off and on. Not enough to offer any clue as to where the hell she was being held. Just fucking perfect. God only knew which set of pissed off assholes this was. She had a real knack for making enemies.

She heard a shuffling down what must have been a rather long corridor, and her heart began to beat a little faster. There it was, that spike in adrenaline that told her she was in some real trouble. Her eyes darted around the cell looking for something to use as a weapon, lighting finally on what appeared to be a spoon. Shit. It'd have to do.

She quickly snatched up the utensil and shoved it down into her blouse, tucking it securely under the band of her bra before resuming her prostrate position on the floor and trying like hell to steady her breathing. These creeps didn't need to know she was conscious… not yet.

Micro described it as a vacation, although Frank wasn't sure if hiding out in an abandoned warehouse and living off canned goods for two weeks could be called a vacation. Maria had liked short jaunts to the beach, weekends spent in one room summer shacks where they let their bathing suits dry on the line outside and drank sangria on the porch overlooking the ocean. Sometimes when he fell asleep he could still smell the salt on the air, just like it had whipped across the water. He didn't think anything he'd done in the last couple years could possibly be described as a vacation.

But it was down time, and he had used it as best he could. Sleeping off a fair number of bruises and cuts, laying back to read a book for the first time since a bullet had torn through his gray matter. It was amazing how nimble his mind felt after a few weeks of recuperation. He was raring and ready to get back to work, but Micro wouldn't give him the all-clear.

Apparently he'd inadvertently stepped into some real shit, snapping the neck of an entitled prick who'd been swinging his dick around a little too forcefully. Not that Frank was averse to rolling around in the muck with scumbags, especially pricks like Kimball Blackwell. The man seemed to think it was alright to hire sex-workers and leave them bleeding in alleys. Frank didn't like that, and he'd put a permanent stop to it with one bullet.

It was unfortunate that the Blackwell family also happened to be an organized crime syndicate that Frank'd never heard of. Based out of upstate New York, they were old school skull-busters that had been in the smuggling game since it was profitable to pack barrels of whiskey into horse drawn buggies. The times had changed and so had the Blackwell's product. The family owned a lucrative trucking business now, slipping various shipments of narcotics hidden in tirewells back and forth between the U.S./Canada border.

But had Kimball Blackwell not been such an through and through piece of shit, Frank wouldn't have had any real interest in taking them down, at least not any time soon. Creating power vacuums in drug empires had a way of creating more problems than it solved, and Frank, despite his reputation for being a homicidal maniac, liked to be a little more prepared when it came to things like that. The problem was the younger Blackwells had been born into an empire, and they were spoiled rotten little shits who got off on hurting people. The Blackwells minions had come out in droves to avenge Kimball's death before Frank had even known what was happening, which had resulted in this little vacation from reality.

He hadn't liked how quickly he'd had to snatch up his things and move into hiding, but keeping on the move was a normal part of his new life. The only thing about this whole misadventure that gave him real pause was worrying about Karen's safety. He'd spent too much time popping by her place, walking her home, trading leads. This was exactly the kind of mistake that could pull her down into the bullshit with him, especially with a bunch of woman hating sadistic fucks on his tail.

Micro's emails were succinct, nothing dramatic really. All they contained was information about the family's movements, their dealings and whatnot. Frank poured over it all for clues as to whether or not they knew about her. Finally, after days of dry intel, Frank actually brought up her name, tagging on a short line to an already brief email: _Page's nose still clean?_

He expected a simple reassurance, but what he'd gotten was far from it.

 _Haven't noticed movement in a couple days. Will check personally. Stay where you are. The wolf pack is still out roaming._

Hours later he'd received a phone call on his burner, but it hadn't been Micro or Karen on the other end of the line.

Karen expected her visitor to drag her up off the floor, to roughly shake her awake. What she didn't expect was the quiet whisper of a man dropping to his knees beside her. Her whole body went cold when she felt the man drag the tip of one finger down the side of her face, pushing away one lock of hair in a sick semblance of tenderness. She fought the urge to gag as the touch traveled down the side of her neck, tracing along the collar of her blouse.

The man spoke. "So you're his whore, huh? His little fuckbuddy on cold nights?"

He leaned forward to sniff at her, grunting in satisfaction. "I heard he couldn't get it up anymore, but looking at you I'm sure that's not true." He let out a lecherous sigh. "Does he call out his dead wife's name while he's pinning your to the mattress? Yeah? I bet that stings." He began to finger the buttons of her blouse.

Karen's jaw tensed, her heart picking up it's pace in spite of everything she did to slow it. The only shot she had was to incapacitate the man and make run for it. It sounded like he'd left the door to her cell wide open. In the the space of a breath she hauled herself up into a sitting position, putting all her momentum behind the heel of her palm against the vile man's nose. She hoped the force would break the bone and shove it up into his brain.

Unfortunately it didn't work quite as planned, and although a satisfying amount of blood spurted out, the man wasn't lying dead at her feet. She scrambled away from him, ignoring the bellowing roar as she dove for the cell's exit. An ear piercing scream flew from her throat. "Help! Someone, please!"

Large hands caught her round the waist, hauling her up against a burly chest, quickly pinning her arms to her side. The man laughed evilly in her ear. "You're a feisty one, aren't ya? It's been awhile since I had one who liked to bite and scratch and scream. Too bad that'll have to wait till later, after Frank Castle is nothing but a bullet riddled corpse."

He began to drag her down the corridor, toward a door with a weakly flickering bulb behind it. She screamed again, this time her voice feeling ragged. "HELP!"

It elicited another laugh from him as he kicked open the door. "Keep it up, Miss Page." There was a phone sitting on the corner of a desk in a room with no windows, he shoved her toward it. "Call him. I need you to scream. You're Karen Page he's the Punisher, he will come for you."

She clammed up, stiffening at the prospect. Not a muscle in her body would move toward the phone. Instead she spat at the man. "Fuck you! Call him yourself."

All the air whooshed out of her lungs when he slammed her up against the wall, one knee jammed between her thighs, a hand clasped around her throat. "Listen, you little bitch. You're gonna call him, and you're gonna scream, and if you don't feel like it, I'll just have to motivate you properly."

He raised his hand, a bulky ring with his family crest on it glinting in the weak lighting. She scanned her memory for anything relating to it, but nothing came up. The hand came down against the side of her head, leaving a ringing in her ears as she tumbled to the floor. She barely had time to process the pain before he was hauling her up again. "I already have the number, thanks to his little buddy that came looking for you, but I need your precious voice on the other end of the line."

She laughed bitterly. "You're singing your own death certificate."

He dragged her back to the desk, pinning her face down against the smooth walnut, the tops of his thighs pressing pressing against her backside. With his free hand he removed the receiver from it's cradle and laid it next to her face, quickly dialing the number to Frank's burner. Karen tried one last time to escape, bucking beneath his weight, trying in vain to get the heel of her foot up high enough to kick him in the balls.

The man only pressed down harder, listening intently as other end of the line rang. Finally it stopped, the ringing momentarily replaced by a raspy breathing. Frank was never one to speak first when someone called his burner, Karen knew this and so did the man holding her captive. He twisted his fingers in the hair at the back of her neck and yanked hard, eking out a surprised yell from Karen. She didn't want Frank to walk into an ambush. She clamped her mouth shut, biting down painfully on her lip until she drew blood, but it was too late. He'd heard her already, his voice very far away, small and tinny on the other end of the line...

"Karen?"

Micro had gone radio-silent, that was the first bad sign. The second was the phone call, half a second of Karen yelping into the receiver, followed by the sounds of a physical altercation, and then the panting voice of the last man Frank was going to kill today.

"Come and get her, Castle. Or the same thing's gonna happen to your whore that happened to Kimball's last one."

"Where the hell are you?"

More nearly silent struggling, judging from the speaker's choppy breathing. There was a thump in the background. Frank cursed softly. There was no way in hell Karen would be compliant. He only hoped this was just some moron underling who'd decided to take things in his own hands to impress his bosses. There was a chance she might get out of this alive if that were the case. Frank waited for the man's response.

"I'm so glad you asked." The man rattled off an address.

Frank memorized it quickly, pushing away the tinge of red that was beginning to encroach on his vision. This was no time for a mindless rampage. He had to be quiet, and precise and leave no stone unturned.

He ended the call without responding to the asshole, reaching for his ready-bag. He was out the door in less than thirty seconds, running along the rooftops toward the docks, twisting a silencer onto his favorite pistol. The locations these pricks picked were really beginning to be old-hat for Frank. An empty warehouse with the words Blackwell Shipping slashed across the brick facade, the paint nearly as old as the crumbling bricks.

He picked off the snipers on the roof first, one shot, one kill. Each man falling in a silent heap before they could even register what had happened to their companions. Frank suspected the kidnappers knew this would happen, giving no shits for the unfortunate assholes posted up there. They were decoys, something to make him feel safe and in control. He glanced along the windows of the surrounding warehouses, finally catching the glint of a rifle scope in the moonlight. Frank took the man out with one shot, quickly moving down into the alley beside the building.

If he had anything to say about it, there wouldn't be a lone survivor of the Blackwell family when he was finished with them.

As soon as the line went dead, the man hauled Karen back up against him. He pulled her back into the corridor, this time moving toward a set of damp stone steps. She fought against his movements. Every fiber of her being told her that going to yet another location with this man spelled disaster. She elbowed him in the ribs and took off down the corridor, only to be caught in the midsection by an unyielding fist out of nowhere.

She crumpled to the floor, and the new man picked her up like a sack of potatoes and threw her over his shoulder. "Where you want me to put her, Mr. Blackwell?"

"In my office. I have plans for her."

Unable to catch her breath, she was helpless. She could feel the man going up the stairs with her, heard the click of a door unlocking. He dropped her in a heap on a slick leather couch, her vision doubling as her head knocked against the wall behind her. The bigger man was gone before she could gather her senses. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried valiantly to catch her breath and ease the throbbing in her skull. Everything was happening too fast, her mind foggy with the latest blow.

Her original captor was back, Mr. Blackwell his man had called him. She wracked her brain and still couldn't come up with anything. Why did this man want Frank so badly? And what did he have planned for her?

One question was answered with the sound of leather belt sliding free from its loops and dropping to the floor. Karen's eyes flew open to see Blackwell unbuttoning his trousers and stalking toward her with a leering smile on his face. "My brother liked to beat his whores a little before availing himself of their services, but I'm more of a gentle sort. Gentler even, I bet, than your fuckbuddy Castle."

Karen felt her mind go blank. Men like this couldn't be reasoned with. She didn't have anything to trade him, no information, no assurances. He wanted one thing, and that was to crush her beneath him, to inflict as much pain as possible. He had no ulterior motive now that Frank was already on the way, and she had no means of stopping him.

Seeing her frozen in fear made Blackwell's smile grow wider, and he threw caution to the winds, approaching her quickly. His snatched at her blouse, eyes dancing as the buttons bounced on the wooden floorboards. The motion made Karen look down, and she saw it. The metal edge of the spoon hidden in her bra.

In a split second she fished the utensil out, holding it in her hand like a dagger she lunged forward and plunged the curved metal into Blackwell's eye socket, twisting the spoon and pulling out the man's eyeball.

He let out a bloodcurdling scream, staggering back, hands clutched to his face. Karen was back, her mind firing on all cylinders. Quickly she jumped up, scrambling to the fireplace to grab the only weapon-like object in the room: a rusty fire poker.

She hit him over the head with the handle, heavy cast iron leaving a crunching dent in the back of the man's skull. He dropped to the floor instantly, but Karen's momentum and rage carried her forward, raising the handle over and over again until the man's face was nothing but a bloody pulp.

The door behind her flew open, and she turned, fully prepared to fly at her next attacker, but she stopped cold at the sight of a white skull painted across a flack jacket. Relief surged through her body, making her go limp, fire poker falling to the floor. Her spiking adrenaline had nowhere to go now that she wasn't fighting. Instead she burst into tears, knees collapsing beneath her.

Frank caught her before she hit the floor, holding her tight against his chest, soft shushing noises whispering in her ear as his hands probed her body for injuries. "I've got you. They're all dead. You're safe."

She didn't see him again for two weeks, but it wasn't the same as the last time. One by one the heirs to the Blackwell Shipping fortune began showing up dead, clearly assassinated, one bullet lodged in each of them. She kept track of it in the obituaries, safely ensconced in Foggy's apartment. Frank wouldn't let her go back to hers until this mess was over.

When she did go back there were new locks on the door, a new steel reinforced door frame even, and the windows looked like they belonged in fort knox. The glass was suspiciously thick and Karen was pretty sure it could withstand more than a few rounds of ammunition.

And he was waiting for her, standing in her kitchen with small flowerpot clutched in his scarred hands, an unreadable expression on his face. She walked toward him, unsure of what he was thinking. "That for me?"

He nodded, setting the succulent plant on the table beside him. "I would have brought flowers but…" He trailed off, the memory of the violets still painful for the both of them. "Ma'am, I'm sorry-" He stopped short, something in his voice catching. His vocal chords were raspy, mostly unused in the past few weeks. The sound of emotion getting tangled in with the hoarse vibrations made her pulse skip. "Frank?"

He moved toward her, lifting one hand to her face, fingers tracing the spot where she'd been bruised. The mark was long faded, but she knew he could still see it in his mind's eye. His roving hand slipped into her hair, cradling her head, fingers brushing against the spot where she'd been knocked over the head.

Swallowing, she tried to form the words to articulate how she was feeling. There was a well of emotion inside of her, rising until she thought it was going to spill out in a cascade of tears. He was being so gentle, his eyes probing so deeply into her soul. Before she could say anything, she was crushed to him in a tight hug.

He mumbled against her hair. "I should have stopped coming around a long time ago. You're life is tainted by me. I'm sorry." He began to pull away.

She shook her head, reaching her arms up around his neck and pulling him closer. "What's done is done, Frank. Leaving won't change that." Her bottom lip began to tremble. "Please stay."

He leaned down, his forehead touching hers, skin melding. "Okay."

"Okay."


End file.
